Chapter 3. House Calore

The rhythmic canter and gallop of the colossal wolves over the frozen terrain jolted me awake from my slumber. The delicate touch of snowflakes against my cheeks served as an icy awakening. A weathered wagon, groaning with age, bore the weight of my prone form. With every creak of its timeworn frame, the ache in my body seemed to burrow deeper, like a relentless creature seeking refuge in my very flesh.

As the journey continued, the landscape transformed. Before us stood a castle, its silhouette hauntingly familiar, though the details eluded me. The very air seemed to pulse with a sense of foreboding. It was here that the agony intensified, a surge of raw intensity coursing through me. The metallic restraints that encircled my hands and feet, robust and unyielding, tightened their grip with a vice-like force. The sensation was as if the very essence of pain had taken on a tangible form, seeking to consume me whole.

House of Calore.

House Calore was one of the most powerful Springgan clans. They ruled the 7th region, our town, with the second largest population in all Springgan. It is one of the frequent participants in the Solstice and Equinox arenas. Most of its households were in the IV rank with a 3-star IV***. If they win the arena this winter, House Felun could be the next ruling house in the next ranking elections or appointments.

The dominance of the ranking system held its firm grip over the land, a relentless force shaping the very fabric of the country. It was a paradigm where the wealthy laid claim to higher numbers, basking in the privileges that accompanied their lofty status, while the destitute were burdened with the lowest digits. This stark reality was an inescapable truth, an unyielding fate that both Springgan's citizens and its elves were condemned to.

The echoes of resistance had grown faint, extinguished by the crimson stains of history that marred the ten distinct regions of the nation. The collective memory of bloody uprisings and futile defiance had cast a shadow over the populace, sowing seeds of trepidation. The brave few who dared to challenge the rank system were met with an unforgiving end, their voices silenced in the most tragic of ways. The grim toll of lives lost was a haunting reminder that spoke louder than any rallying cry.

Many had embarked on strikes, their fervor pitted against the rigidity of the hierarchy. But in the face of the system's merciless retaliation, too many had perished, leaving behind a legacy of despair. The very prospect of resistance had become a double-edged sword, compelling the marginalized citizens to opt for lives of meager existence rather than risk the wrath of a system that held the power of life and death in its hands.

And so, for generations, the ranking system persisted, an indomitable force etching its mark on society. Its rules, seemingly skewed against the downtrodden elves, were crafted to favor the affluent. I, too, bore the weight of this oppressive caste structure, a pawn in a game where the apex of power would forever remain unchallenged. The system's foundation, the vulnerable and powerless, stood as a testament to its unyielding dominance, unshaken by the feeble cries for change.

Such was the visage of Springgan—a realm constructed upon the foundations of fear and ruled by the ironclad grip of the mighty.

Throughout Springgan, there were ten distinct areas. The House of Calore presided over our territory, and other regions were ruled by families whose bloodlines had dominated the populace for millennia.

In the city of Springgan, the five of House Felun were absolute rulers. They had the most influential members of the house, so they were chosen as the new rulers. Their monarch, Ivorn Felun, was a three-star V***, their queen was a two-star V***, and each of their offspring was born with a star. The household rank held by the governing family and the ten minor royal families is only V.

The ten influential houses ruled an equally divided region from 1st to 10th. Each house had a king and a queen carrying an emblem with a rank of five-two stars (V**), which had a power equivalent to the queen of the ruling house. The prince and princesses of the minor royalty were marked with a one-star ranked V*. Royal bloodlines were called the fives.

Their power was higher than the powerful officials of the Springgan government, dominated mainly by the ruling house, the Feluns.

High-ranked government officials get a IV*** mark or a ranked four-three star emblem. Their tenure in service, house origin, influence, and public trust determine their star marking. The Rank III are the warriors, legends, champions, or the ikons in the arena. Stars are determined based on their level of mastery and, most importantly, the number of battles won and arena kills.

Rank II warriors are ordinary warriors in the field. They can be one-star participants or newbies. Two are experienced, and the three-starred warriors are the experts and ready to become legends.

Rank I used to be in the same position as the slaves, servants, peasants, workers, and regular folks who weren't particularly notable or gifted. I was a member of society's lowest echelons. My parents held the rank of I**, so I got it from them.

The troops of Calore would most likely turn me into an enslaved person, or they could include me in their monthly public execution. Those around me would watch as I was publicly executed by beheading or hanging. Perhaps in Cali and Poras's presence.

My energy levels were low, and my stomach was growling, so I may have passed out or fallen asleep. Before total darkness descended upon me, the huge black gate of House Calore was the last thing I saw.

It was like a curse was placed upon me when I opened my eyes.

****

My slumber was shattered by a jarring creak, a metallic lament that reverberated through the air. It was a sound I had anticipated, an inevitable intrusion into my world of anticipation and preparedness. Being born and bred in this land, the cacophony carried a deeper resonance—an unwelcome herald of the fate that awaited me. I was intimately acquainted with the horrors that befell those relegated to the lower echelons of society.

We, the underprivileged, were branded as lesser beings, relegated to the margins of existence. The wealthy, perched upon their lofty pedestals, were sustained by the toil of hands that they spurned. The irony was poignant; their prosperity was inextricably bound to our labor, yet they regarded us as mere tools, disposable commodities in their opulent world.

The questions gnawed at my mind, each like a shard of uncertainty. Would the gallows be my destiny? Would the final chapter of my story be etched in the unforgiving ink of execution? The weight of suspicion bore down upon me, an iron shroud that obscured my innocence. My quest to safeguard an elven official had taken a sinister twist—my very actions had cast me in the role of a perpetrator.

I harbored no illusions about the web I found myself ensnared in. In a society that thrived on hierarchy and disparity, justice was a concept often reserved for the privileged. My status as a low-ranked elf, a mere pawn in this grand tapestry of power, meant that the scales of justice might not tip in my favor. Would I be condemned to a public spectacle of death, a spectacle that wouldn't grant me the chance to prove my innocence?

A preference lingered within me, an unspoken yearning for the confines of a private dungeon over the humiliation of a public execution. In the shadows, at least, I could grapple with my fate, seek to unveil the truth shrouded by lies. A trial by combat, an opportunity to prove my worth, my loyalty—it was a distant aspiration, a glimmer of hope in a world of despair. As the cold tendrils of fear coiled around me, I knew that my fight for survival was a battle against not just my accusers, but against the very fabric of a society that had cast me as an expendable pawn.

I knew I was leaving Poras and Cali vulnerable to the inhabitants of the 7th area when I broke their hearts by leaving them alone in the house. If the end of my life was already written in the stars, I hope it comes quickly. Put me out of my misery by killing me fast, like I often did to my victims.

The echoes of the metal-capped boots of the household guards echoed through the halls. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the eagle's head on the 7th region symbol was the House Calore emblem. Their identifiers, III*** (the third rank with three stars), could be found underneath the crest. It indicates that they are exceptional warriors. Maybe their talent is innate, and that's why they're a III***.

Whispers of doubt and uncertainty danced within my thoughts. Who or what harbored ill intentions towards someone like me? A simple rider on a war horse held a loftier station than I in this rigid hierarchy. Faced with adversaries of such might, could victory even be contemplated, let alone achieved? Should I persist in this struggle, this uphill battle that seemed destined to defeat me at every turn?

Then, as if fates conspired, both my arms were seized, though less violently than my imagination had painted. The scene wasn't as gruesome as I had feared. Despite that, my entire being trembled, from the depths of my knees to the core of my soul. Weakness pervaded my frame, prompting the soldiers to lend their strength, guiding me to an opulent room, a chamber of luxurious splendor I had only glimpsed in photographs.

Three majestic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crafted from diamond-like gems that cast prismatic hues upon the room. Their radiance illuminated the expanse with a singular brilliance. On one side stood an imposing dresser adorned with a mirror framed in delicate white and blue roses, while opposite it, an array of ceremonial gowns worn by the elven royals adorned the space. The fragrance of blooms infused the air, almost tangible as it caressed my senses. The entire room, encased in glass, offered a view that left me hesitant to navigate its fragile confines.

This encounter, strange and unfamiliar, was a departure from my past. The soldiers positioned me before a grand mirror, reflecting an unkempt figure—my wild burgundy hair eclipsing my weary eyes, a scruffy and rough exterior that belied the turmoil within. The cushioned bench welcomed me as my back found solace.

In the hush that followed the departure of the armed guards, three women of porcelain grace entered. Draped in finery that flowed like a river, their gowns trailing elegantly behind them, they bore an air of elegance that spoke of their station. Atop their heads perched delicate flower crowns, woven from lavender and carnation blooms. Their demeanor exuded sophistication, a display of practiced grace that belied their power.

"Maidens," I whispered, marveling at their synchronized movement. The first among them bore a sizable box, adroitly arranging it among the line of ornate ball gowns. The second, sporting short hair, carried a tray laden with fragrant oils, soaps, and scents, disappearing through a concealed door at the room's far end. The third, her presence regal, arranged a sumptuous feast upon the nearby table, beside which I perched.

My voice remained unvoiced as she removed the offering before I could even catch its scent, replaced by a smoke that billowed from her ring—a glowing emblem of magic, marking her as a mage. My thoughts raced as I observed the arcane spectacle. A tendril of smoke hurled toward me, catching me off guard, only to dissipate upon contact with my skin. A rush of energy coursed through me, rekindling my strength, banishing numbness, and igniting a renewed vitality. Pupils dilated, I gazed at the conjurer who seemed oblivious to the transformation she had wrought.

It was hard to fathom the potency possessed by the high-ranked elves, their gifts and talents transcending the mundane. Such mastery over the arcane, an ability to manipulate the very fabric of reality, set them apart as extraordinary beings. A chance encounter with a dying elven royal, vulnerable like any other, had perhaps misled me. These royals, adorned with emblems and wielding supernatural prowess, seemed capable of unraveling my defiance with a mere thought. The intimidation was palpable, a reminder of the gulf that separated us, a testament to the power of the elite.

"Miss, your elegant quarters await," the lady who had entered from the hall murmured softly. The maiden-like figure advanced toward me, measured steps punctuating her approach. With assistance from her companion, they seated me with gentleness.

Resistance seemed futile, my life hanging on a precipice defined by cooperation and compliance. The weight of the situation bore down, and my body, unbidden, began to align itself with the desires of these three distinguished women. As they divested me of my tattered attire and guided me into the chamber of transformation, I yielded, a passive participant in a ritual of rejuvenation.

In this bewildering realm of privilege, I couldn't help but question my sudden elevation. How had I shifted from a lowly existence to one where I was attended by handmaidens, bathed in luxury, and draped in opulent attire? Each delicate fold of the A-line purple gown adorned with golden threads bespoke a narrative that I had yet to grasp fully. The emblematic colors of House Calore—the purples and golds—embraced me, an enigma that left me grappling for answers. Was this an embrace of acceptance or a cloak concealing deeper motives?

The lady with short hair queried with a touch of sweetness, "Shall we proceed, Miss, or would you prefer an alternative?" An option laid bare, a choice to be made. My response, though not immediate, was borne of the realization that refusal bore risks I dared not shoulder. In a moment where the current of fate whisked me along, I surrendered, allowing the tide to bear me toward uncharted territories. Peer pressure, pride—these were eclipsed by survival, my every decision weighed against the backdrop of mortality.

The tendrils of apprehension tightened as we advanced toward the royal hall, the echoing thump of my heart mirroring the cadence of uncertainty that underscored my journey. In this moment, the tapestry of fate remained enshrouded, yet one truth was evident: I had narrowly escaped the brink of death. As the emblem of House Calore granted passage, a portal to the heart of power, the weight of the unknown bore heavily upon me, and I stepped into the presence of the man whose dominion held sway over my destiny.

"Idrish of House Rendin!"

The king abruptly ended his discussion with the uniformed officer marked IV**. Why am I so desperately needed that he was able to dismiss a level IV employee just to make room for me? So far, I'm not a fan of the current situation.

The king studied me as though I were a masterpiece that had been delivered to him. He may be in his sixties, but his delicate features—like his sharp nose and wrinkled face—make him look much younger. He wore a gold and purple cloak lined with ermine along with his eagle-like headgear.

Miss Rendin, how have you been? The king's polite request masked an underlying expression of delight. He stared at my shaky hands intently.

As a gesture, I bowed. Before expressing my thoughts, I gargled some water. "I am your h-highness." As for whether or not I made the right move by greeting the monarch, I have no idea. This was always my catchphrase whenever my family and I would put on a play as youngsters. My master is Poras, and I am always his servant. Were they prepping me for this?

"Very well. You know the reason why we brought you here?" he asked.

That's the question I've wanted to know for a time now. Would I appreciate the response if the king were to answer my inquiry? Probably yes. Possibly not.

"Answer the king! You are sup—" snorted a high-ranked official who was immediately below the king's throne. You are a woman in her mid 40's with a score of IV***. From the looks of it, he appears strict and has a lot of disdain for me.

The ruler weaned the woman. He gazed carefully at the lady official and then turned back to me.

"No, Y—your Grace." It felt like I was in the middle of a trial. All the eyes there were focused on me.

"It's impossible to find words to describe how awful what you do is. You ought to be dead by now, Miss Rendin. The people should have been treated to a gruesome display of your dismembered remains... You have slain the monarch. No idea how you accomplished it, but you managed to eliminate the monarchy."

As the words tumbled forth from the king's lips, a transformation swept over his countenance. His smile, once a beacon of regal composure, dimmed into the recesses of memory, replaced by an unsettling amalgamation of pain and enmity.